Diamonds in the Dirt
by pingnova
Summary: "It was kind of cute to think of Jonathan carefully examining Sock's kills after the fact. It was like sending notes back and forth. Sock killed them, Jonathan examined them, then Sock buried them. With the back and forth, they were practically a team at this point anyway. As far as Sock was concerned, it was sweet either way." Serial killer/crime AU.
1. Validation

It was wrong to bury a body without a proper marker.

He found it some way into the woods. It wasn't clear if it was marking an overgrown grave or if it was just discarded some time ago. Graveyard keepers didn't have any respect for the waste disposal system and just threw what was unwanted into the woods.

Either way, he wasn't above a bit of grave robbing. It was his, now.

Whatever name had graced the stone before was mostly worn away by debris and time, but he thought he could make out something like "H. Holmes." All that was really left was the "me". It was ironic, so he kept it, carefully deepening the remaining pair of letters with a small sharp trowel in his free time.

It felt right that he wouldn't have a name on his headstone. Names were for brothers, mothers, sons, beloveds. He wasn't anything like that. Beloveds and sons didn't kill their parents. He was just Sock, and he wasn't even sure he deserved that. At the very least, he most definitely would not have his birth name hovering above his head for all time.

"me" would do just fine.

Sock's job was simple. He dug graves for the nearby crematory and whoever else wanted their final resting place to be the serene Primrose Cemetery. It looked nice, as far as cemeteries went. Trees enclosed it on all sides, the woods started on the north end. It was small, historical (the home of three famous pilots and, according to his boss, a senator), and quiet. Out of the way, so that the most traffic that traveled the county road nearby was maybe five cars a day.

At one time this had been good for him. He didn't need an audience when he buried his parents. And he didn't need anyone watching him off himself after.

The moon was full and low to the horizon, throwing him into shadow on one side and light on the other. The light made it easier to dig. It felt like cosmic encouragement. It confirmed that for once, he was doing the right thing.

It took some hours to get eight feet down and several across, but the moon was still providing light by the time tossed the shovel to the side and grabbed his knife.

One last thing.

"Well old friend, never thought I'd find myself on your business end."

He gripped the knife and before he could think, pulled it into his chest. With the muscles he had developed from years a grave digging, it wouldn't be difficult to break the skin and muscle, maybe even the bone.

Only it wasn't solid bone that stopped the knife. In fact, it never went through a layer of flesh at all. It stopped just before his chest. He couldn't move his arms. Some psychic force force held it back. Jaw clenched, he dropped his arms and threw the knife into the grave. He gripped the ears of his hat and pulled in frustration.

This was what he wanted, to be dead. Right?

But he didn't find it in him to off himself. How could he, when suddenly, he knew what it felt like to kill. He'd been asleep, but he thought he could remember the thrill. In the moment, it seemed like a dream, but he was standing over his open grave, which lay next to the fresh earth of his parents graves, and knew it couldn't be a dream.

If he killed himself, he could never feel that thrill while awake.

Not to mention, the whole town was interested in the murder. He had their attention, even if they didn't know it was him. For years he'd had no real friends. He still lived with his parents, for God's sake. His social life was abysmal, no one paid attention to the weird gravedigger.

Except now, everyone did.

He'd been on the news, in a way. As the victim of his parents' murder, he'd asked to not be included in any news segments, so as Sock Sowachowski, he was still mostly anonymous. But as the killer of his parents, he was the talk of the town.

Unbeknownst to anyone but himself, he was Sock Sowachowski: Gravedigger, killer of Parents, no one's Beloved, no longer a Son.

He was Sock, and he'd killed his parents. In his sleep.

The third person he killed was intentional.

His name was Henry. As the local morgue technician, he did everything a normal person did except when he went in to work, he stuck his hands in human bodies legally.

Sock knew him as the one whose work was so good, that when he attended his parents' funeral, he couldn't tell that they had been literally cut open and dissected by the figurative legal system.

Apparently, he had been part of the local deathcare industry longer than Sock had been digging graves. Which to Sock was saying something, considering it felt like he'd spent a lifetime in the dirt.

He thanked Henry for taking care of his parents.

Along the way to work, Henry ran into Sock on the long stretch of empty, uninhabited road, looking for what caused a flat in the tire of his bike. Henry offered to help. Henry was really too kind. Henry was dead now, lying in the ditch with a big oblong rock by his head.

It was wrong to bury a body without a proper marker.

Sock had wanted to see if he could do it. Kill again.

Sure, his parents had been a mistake. But this was something he could apparently do in his sleep. A skill so great, it was just bursting out of him. How could he ignore that? The whole world had to see.

And it was seeing. He'd caught a news segment on Henry just yesterday.

Of course as a kid he'd been a bit notorious for taking small animal life. But humans were another thing entirely. They were bigger, they were smarter, and they were meaner. It was wrong to kill them. Like, _really_ wrong. But it was also _really_ fun.

When Henry had struggled and pleaded and moaned, Sock felt so alive. The sky was brighter and his blood was louder and the adrenalin fueled a little giggle.

It was like validation rushed out of Henry instead of blood. Sock was coated with it. He could do what he wanted. He could kill if he wanted.

He could kill anyone he wanted to.

(Except maybe himself.)

Henry had a pretty average funeral. Sad slow music, sobbing family, grown adults still calling him "dad" when it was their turn to speak. Sock left early to make sure he was at the gravesite on time. When the procession arrived, something caught his eye. As people congregated around the open grave, near the back of the crowd was an unfamiliar face with the most beautiful eyes. They shimmered, but not with tears. They were like blue diamonds set in a totally impassive stone face. As the priest droned, those eyes locked with Sock's, and he found himself smiling with a soft dreamy sigh, even while the face stayed stony.

When the crowd dispersed, the family had thrown some dirt on the coffin, and he finished the job, Sock asked his boss, the president of the crematory Mephistopheles, who had the blue diamond eyes.

"That would be Jonathan Combs."

Mephistopheles shuffled through some papers on his desk, eventually pulling out a newspaper clipping: Henry's obituary.

"The guy who was killed, Henry. He was the morgue technician. They got a new one, that Jonathan kid, from out of town. The Medical Examiner says he's a good kid. Not that he's passed his exams with perfect scores or anything, but that he's got the right attitude about the industry. Seems pretty unflappable."

"Yeah…" Sock agreed with the unflappable-ness. His heart squeezed, wondering what that meant for his love life.

The crematorium and morgue were across the street from one another. This meant that the employees from both would often run into each other at one of the few restaurants in the vicinity. That was how Sock met Lil.

Lil was a security guard for the morgue. The labs and lockers containing dead bodies were sensitive evidence that had to be protected from tampering or theft.

"They pay me to look spooky and stand by doors," she said.

"Sounds lovely," Sock joked.

She laughed around her burger.

Lil wore what most security guards wear. A jacket with some badges, a utility belt with a heavy flashlight and a walkie talkie. She was usually in jeans and black boots when Sock ran into her at lunch. Her hair was perpetually in a ponytail, with a few strands loose. One day she showed up and sat at their table as usual, except there was one big difference.

"What happened to your hair?"

Lil rubbed her hair self-consciously. It was buzzed close to her skin, so it was just a purple shadow on her cranium. "Boss thought my hair was unprofessional, told me to get it cut."

Sock frowned. There had been nothing wrong with Lil's hair before, and he said so.

Lil sighed. "Yeah, well tell my boss that. Actually, don't. I need this job."

She kept rubbing her hair.

"It'll grow back out again," Sock said, trying for reassurance.

"I guess."

It was a quiet lunch hour.

Charlotte was Lil's boss, Sock discovered. She was a short but fierce woman, with a shaved head herself. Despite the apparent harshness towards her employees, she had a bad habit of being a Good Samaritan whenever the possibility struck. In the short time Sock observed her, she jumped a couple cars, helped the elderly cross the street, carried groceries for a woman in a wheelchair, and stayed with a lost child until her mother showed up. It was so sweet it was almost sickening. He wondered how someone like that could make Lil cut her hair.

No matter.

He told the police that he'd made a good friend who had been wronged terribly. They could understand bad people happen to good things, he supposed. Lil was a good thing, and her boss didn't deserve her. He'd been itching to kill again, his letter said. So he decided to give Charlotte what was coming for her.

"The Good Samaritan made one mistake and it followed her to the grave."

The police found her in her backyard, a stone in the grass at her head.

Somebody new joined "their" table. At least, Sock considered it his and Lil's table, since they sat there everyday. He'd be more than open to new members, especially given that the person who had just sat down was "blue diamond eyes" Jonathan Combs.

"Hey Lil," he said.

Lil nodded back, staring vacantly at her hamburger.

Jonathan sat down and began eating without acknowledging Sock. Which was fine, Sock could initiate greetings.

"Hi!" Sock offered.

Jonathan looked up from his salad, nodded in his direction once, and then went back to eating.

Sock frowned.

"You're Jonathan, right?"

Jonathan nodded again.

"I'm Sock!"

Jonathan nodded without looking away from his food. He didn't even raise an eyebrow at the ridiculousness of the name, like Sock normally got. Odd.

But then again, when he'd first seen him, it seemed like Jonathan was made of stone, so maybe this was how he normally was. Unflappable.

Sock could deal with that.

The next lunch, Jonathan was back. Sock dragged him into a grudging conversation about the quality, or lack thereof, of the fast food, which consisted mostly of Sock babbling and Jonathan grunting. Jonathan ate quickly and left just as fast, giving Lil a quick goodbye.

Sock cocked his head towards Lil.

"I'm getting the feeling he doesn't like me."

Lil shrugged good naturedly and quietly replied, "He's just a sourpuss. He'll warm up."

"It's not the grave digging, is it? He saw me at the funeral, he must know that I bury dead bodies for a living. I know that freaks some people out."

"Sock," Lil gave him a flat look, "there's no way in hell that's it. Jonathan works at a morgue. He touches dead bodies every day."

"Still…" Stigma runs deep.

"Give him some time. The only reason he warmed up to me is because we see each other every day. He's met you―what? Three times?"

That was true. He just had to keep seeing Jonathan.

The morgue was a plain building. With its gray cement exterior, which lacked any decoration whatsoever, it was something obviously built in the utilitarian 60s. Something about the smooth, untouched cement made it look supernaturally out of place, like it was a huge square UFO that plopped itself in a quaint countryside settlement.

Sock pushed through the swinging doors and immediately dodged a speeding stretcher. There was a desk with two harried secretaries, each on two phones at once, typing on computers. People in police-looking uniforms stalked across the lobby with legions of scrubbed-up morgue staff in tow. No one paid him any mind.

Another stretcher rushed by, this time with a lumpy sheet on top. Sock grinned. That must be a dead body! How cool.

What was definitely not cool was the noise and visual chaos of the lobby. He shook his head to clear any thoughts and carefully stepped into the bustle, trying to figure which direction to go. Eventually, he chose the right, where the stretcher with the sheet had gone. He walked quickly, looking determined. No one stopped him until he came to a door at the end of the hallway. He eased it open and found empty flights of stairs.

He would go down, he decided. Decent was comforting and familiar, like slowly digging his way down into a grave.

Sock certainly felt like he was in a grave. As he hopped down the stairs, it grew colder and darker, even with abundant fluorescent lighting. His footsteps echoed off the smooth cement walls, allowing him the knowledge that he was completely alone, wherever he was.

At the bottom of the stairs was a sign before a pair of doors that said " _Labs_." Jonathan had mentioned that he worked in an autopsy lab, right?

Sock took a deep breath and went inside, walking down another hallway lined with large viewing windows. He noticed someone familiar approaching, a purple shadow on their head. Waving, he sped up. Lil would know where to go.

Jonathan was beautiful, haloed by the lamp suspended above the table. Like an angel. A collection of sharp utensils was arrayed before him, gleaming with water. Latex gloves covered his hands, there was a mask over his mouth and nose, and he was wearing turquoise scrubs, faded from years of bleaching.

He finished sudsing up what looked like a small saw and laid it out to dry with the rest of the equipment. He turned to Sock, who could tell he was frowning under the mask.

"You're not supposed to be in here."

"I wanted to see you." Sock bounced a bit, grinning.

Jonathan sighed and turned around, picking up the washed equipment and walking to a cabinet. "Go outside and I'll talk when I'm done."

"No."

"Sock…"

"Jonathan," Sock mocked.

"How did you even get in here?"

Sock shrugged. Once the initial confusion at the chaos wore off, he walked through the halls like he was supposed to be there, and while he got a few looks, probably because of the dirty overalls and boots, no one stopped him until he found Jonathan's lab. Lil had been at the door, on duty. He chatted with her without revealing his intentions to go in the sterile room until she left to go to the bathroom, then he just slipped inside.

Jonathan ripped off his gloves and rubbed his forehead. His eyes were ringed with darkness, and for once his stony face showed an emotion: anger.

"I can call security on you, do you really want that?"

Sock wouldn't care either way, it would be worth it to see Jonathan for a little while longer. But he didn't feel well with that anger turned towards him. He swallowed heavily and left, heart shuddering a little. Another day, then.

One day, he thought, trudging back through the hallways, those blue diamond eyes wouldn't look at him like he was just dirt in a sterile room.

The fourth person he killed was biking along a county road at night, alone, in the dark and quiet. The bike's wheels creaked ever so slightly, which tipped Sock off to the person's presence. He called to them and they stopped to talk, albeit they didn't dismount. Sock smiled and charmed and was all around neighborly until he felt the person had relaxed enough that the muscles wouldn't tense up and make it difficult to get the knife deep in their body.

He made sure to lay the bike by their body. Whoever was next of kin would want it. It was a nice bike.

He mailed his next letter, which said, in part: " _Ashes to ashes, dust to dust_ … You can't buy diamonds with dirt."

Sock snuck in the lab again.

"Sock!"

That was not a happy exclamation. It was how someone would say the name of their dog as it peed on the President of the United States of America's leg.

"I thought I told you to stay out last time," Jonathan said.

"You did," Sock confirmed. That wasn't going to stop him, though.

Jonathan turned his glare to the large viewing window. Sock saw Lil's wide eyes and mischievous smile duck away from the glass.

"Lil let you in?"

Sock nodded.

Jonathan grumbled under his breath and rifled through a drawer, emerging with a clipboard. There was a body on one of the tables near the door, covered with a white sheet sansup to the head. Sock recognized the face with a start. It was his latest kill… What was their name again? Come to think of it, he had never caught this person's name. They were just the person with the bike.

Well, the person with the bike was all autopsied up, presumably.

"The investigators will be here soon," Jonathan warned. "We have reason to believe there's a big case, now. You really have to leave."

Before Sock could reply, they both looked to the door as a legion of shoes clopped down the hallway towards Jonathan's lab.

Sock ducked behind a cabinet at the back of the room. He peered out at Jonathan, who gave him a grind of the jaw, then turned to welcome the investigators. They discussed the autopsy results at length. It ended up with Jonathan listing a long, clinical description of the injuries. Sock listened intently, fascinated. He couldn't believe so much effort went into studying his kills after the fact.

"The wounds are the same: sharp force injury, deep tissue (full thickness, stage four), 30 centimeters tunneling at 10 o'clock lateral from the left collarbone to above the right kidney. Once the incision cleared the ribcage it went deep in the stomach. The killing injury was the sharp force across the neck, though. That's where arteries were cut and the major blood loss occurred. I'd say this looks like it was done with something resembling a blunt kitchen knife, about 15 to 20 centimeters long. Whoever did this must be fairly strong, given the depth of the wounds despite the blunt blade. Two swings and it was done. That much force belongs to someone with some real muscle."

Sock grinned. Jonathan admired his muscles.

"Now, the angle of the wounds suggests that the perpetrator is between 5 foot 4 inches to 5 foot 6 inches. That's accurate as long as the victim was standing straight at the time of the attack. Additionally, because of the neck wound, I believe that the perpetrator has hunting knowledge, given that it seems like it's practiced. It's similar to what one would do to bleed out an animal. The frontal slash would primarily stun and incapacitate the victim enough to make the killing blow easier. Any questions?"

The investigators shook their heads mutely and thanked him for his time. Once they left, Sock came out from behind the cabinet.

"Wow, thats some intense stuff."

Jonathan glared at him.

Sock raised his hands in surrender.

"Alright, I'm off."

Lil nodded to him outside the door.

"He's still angry," Sock said, dejected.

"Time," was all Lil said, giving him a small smile.

Sock was beginning to think maybe she understood why Jonathan was so important to him.


	2. Routine

Today was absolutely, unequivocally the worst day of Sock's life.

Jonathan opened today with a particularly venomous "Get out." Which had zero effect on Sock. Jonathan even appealed to Lil in the hallway, asking her to remove Sock, but she just shrugged and kept walking rounds.

"This is probably illegal," Jonathan griped, prepping some forms.

"You know you love me." Sock grinned, all cheeks.

"I don't love anyone. I am very firmly not in the love arena."

Sock grew a little cold, and not from the room's refrigeration.

"What?"

"You heard what I said. I'm not romantically interested in any way. Probably won't ever be."

Jonathan kept talking but Sock had stopped listening. He couldn't hear over the sound of his heartbeat increasing. Heat rose to his cheeks as he lost feeling in his arms. Not romantically interested? Ever?

"Sock. Sock?"

Sock met Jonathan's eyes. He felt sick.

"Will you leave now?"

Sock nodded and shuffled to the door. With his back turned, he couldn't see Jonathan's face cycle through shock and a bit of worry. The double doors slammed behind him and he was alone in the hallway.

Suddenly, he just wanted to go to the graveyard and never come back. 

* * *

Footsteps approached and Sock hoped whoever it was would ignore the open grave and continue without noticing the person inside.

"Are you really sitting in a hole?"

No such luck.

"Yes."

Grass shushed as Jonathan shuffled to the edge of the hole. Dirt plunked onto Sock's hat when he swung his legs over the edge and took a seat. Sock didn't react. Jonathan would grow bored of watching him wallow in the dirt and then he would leave. Then Sock wouldn't have to try so hard not to look at him, wouldn't be tempted to ask him crazy things, wouldn't worry Jonathan would see his heart fluttering and know.

Jonathan had said so himself. He wasn't interested in anyone. But if that was true, then why was he here?

"What do you want?" Sock finally mumbled.

"You didn't come in today." A pause. "Is everything alright?"

There were a hundred things he could say to that: "My family is dead because of me." "I'm going to dig graves the rest of my life." "I'm running out of places to hide the bodies." "I fell in love with an emotionless morgue tech."

What he did say was Everything's fine. To which Jonathan replied with a shrug, and he didn't leave, and Sock rose to his feet and finally faced him. He couldn't believe his gall. Here he was, sitting at the edge of a grave like it was any other park bench, looking perfectly calm and normal with a big sweatshirt over his scrubs and little diamonds in his eyes that drilled a laser hole through his chest where a heart should be. Wind teased his hair. He was here, unmoving, but he wasn't interested in anyone. Wasn't interested in Sock. Probably wasn't even interested in himself.

Sock clenched his fists and bit his lower lip as pressure built in his head and behind his eyes. He wasn't going to cry over this boy. He didn't want anything to do with him.

"Go away."

"No."

"Why not?" His voice hitched a little.

"I'm not going to leave you alone when you're sitting in a grave marked 'Me'."

"I always sit in graves," he mumbled. "You always wanted me to go away and this is your chance. Just leave and you probably won't see me ever again."

"Well, yeah, I wanted you to leave…"

Sock huddled against one of the walls, head in his arms. Of course he knew that.

"Woah, hey. What did I say now?"

"Just what you always have," he said to the dark space formed by his arms and legs.

"I said I wanted you to leave. I'm here now because I want to see you. I… I guess I missed you a little bit."

Sock's face appeared. Jonathan watched his knees as he kicked his legs.

"You missed me?"

"A little bit."

Sock's grin felt like it would tear his face apart. Jonathan missed him.

The letter he composed that evening was from the exact spot Jonathan had sat, in the red light of sunset once it burnt the clouds away. It told the policemen that there were glimmers of hope for his love and that he wouldn't give up. It said "I'm going to have his blue diamond eyes and he'll have my heart." The policemen would trip over themselves trying to find the hidden message, the references to a new victim, the directions to a body. But they wouldn't find anything, because Sock wasn't making a puzzle out of death this time. No, this time he wouldn't be challenging investigators, but himself.

He wanted Jonathan's blue diamond eyes. Maybe someday Jonathan would want Sock's broken heart. 

* * *

Jonathan did something to shake up everyone's routine. His truck pulled up to Primrose Cemetery as Sock was working on another hole. Sock stuck his shovel blade-first in the dirt and cocked his head curiously as Jonathan and Lil disembarked from the vehicle and approached him. With the shake of a leg, he dislodged most of the dirt from his overalls and stomped his boots in the grass. He was a little embarrassed that they'd see him covered in soil.

When they reached Sock, Jonathan tossed him a paper lunch bag. His usual order from the restaurant was inside. It smelled great, but they still hadn't given any explanation.

"I don't mean to be rude," he began, "but what the hell are you two doing in a cemetery?"

Jonathan smiled a little and Sock felt his heartbeat speed up.

"We figure you've visited our workplace enough, we should visit yours. We brought lunch."

They each held up a similar lunch bag.

"Oh," Sock said. His cheeks warmed. "That's real nice of you."

They sat with their legs dangling in the grave, eating greasy food and discussing their gripes with their coworkers. Sock laughed and winced, he ate good food and smiled. Maybe if he couldn't romantically have Jonathan, being his friend wouldn't be so bad.

The thought startled him. He'd never had friends before. Is that what Lil and Jonathan had become? Was he allowed this? After a life of solitude, could he manage friends?

He met Jonathan's shimmering eyes and decided that his doubts could wait for later. For now, he and his friends were having lunch. 

* * *

"I really don't appreciate you hovering around in here."

Sock just hmmed and kept watching the back of Jonathan's head.

"I'm working, and this is a secure, sterile environment, which you are definitely messing up."

Instead of responding, Sock just asked, "What do dead people's organs feel like?"

"Like lumpy, goopy mashed potatoes in plastic bags." Jonathan turned a bit and wiggled the plastic bag he'd been weighing, which contained some dark, nondescript little organ. "Sock, please leave. I can't let my supervisor find you in here."

Jonathan really cared about his job too much. Nothing happened in this podunk town, most of his cases came from the greater tri-county area, and even those were few, so his supervisor hardly made any visits once he considered his job with the body done. Whenever Jonathan worked, he was alone, left to clean up and organize and fill out paperwork. It was excruciating to watch all of the careful, sterile work. Sock thought it could use the dirt he provided. 

* * *

There was more than a bit of mass hysteria brewing at this point. Five people dead, all murdered horribly, all in the county. It had been only a couple of months. Three of them had been killed along roads and two in their own home, practically in front of their son. Needless to say, Sock's town, and a bunch of others, were on the brink of panic.

There was officially an open case with the police. It was practically all Lil and Jonathan talked about at lunch now. It didn't help that it was all over the news, even displayed on the TV across from their table.

The news had begun calling him "the Gravedigger" because of the stone thing. Ironic. They didn't know how close they were.

Jonathan continued to be tight lipped about the case, committed as he was to all of those disclosures he'd signed. While he wouldn't give any forensics data away, he would answer Sock's questions about about his department, and some procedures, like the autopsy itself.

"What I do is all the assistant stuff, like weighing and taking notes and cleaning up." He ripped off his gloves and tossed them in the trash before taking the trash bag, tying it up, and tossing it in the back hallway. "The menial work."

"This," he said one day, gesturing to the body he was cleaning. "Is what we usually do for an internal examination."

Sock leaned over slightly, curious about the methodical way the body had been sliced up. A cut extended across the chest, from one shoulder to another, and a larger cut traveled the entire length of the chest and abdomen, and ended at the crotch. He could see plastic gleaming inside the abdominal cavity.

"When we return the bodies to family, we put the organs in plastic bags inside the body to keep them from leaking. That would be kind of traumatic for them."

"Did you do this?" Sock asked.

Jonathan shook his head.

"I'm just a technician, I'd need more school and a higher position to actually perform the autopsy. I do help, though."

Sock had a sudden image of Jonathan, covered in warm blood, helping him kill someone. The image was a lot hotter than the scrub-wearing, masked, gloved Jonathan carefully wiping fluid off the skin of the cold body right now. It was a crazy image. Jonathan was too much of a goody-two-shoes to go around killing anything.

Although, it was kind of cute to think of Jonathan carefully examining Sock's kills after the fact. It was like sending notes back and forth. Sock killed them, Jonathan examined them, then Sock buried them. With the back and forth, they were practically a team at this point anyway. As far as Sock was concerned, it was sweet either way. 

* * *

The next time Sock killed, he slit their throat to make them shut up, then tried the incision he had seen the other day in Jonathan's lab. Shoulder to shoulder, chest to crotch. It really did open the body up in two easy cuts. Pretty amazing. His cuts were ragged where the dull knife had caught and ripped skin, but he figured it looked professional enough. He had plenty of time to practice again.

He stuffed his letter in the chest cavity and found a nice stone for the head. 

Numbers six, seven, and eight were also incised. It was better every time, if he did say so himself. Practice made perfect. He said so in his letters.

What he didn't communicate to the police was that he was running out of places to come across potential victims. By the fourth kill, he had already begun to worry about the sparse traffic and limited roads through their area of the county, and now that he was double that, he struggled. No one wanted to travel through the places a body has been found, or if they did, they did it quickly, locked in their cars with at least one other person.

One thing he considered was focusing on another town, but he figured he would be easily spotted as an outsider. It might lead to an arrest.

His next consideration was to somehow lure people to his house, or transport them there. He didn't own a car, just a bike, but he figured that maybe now was the time to go in on some sort of vehicle.

The closest used car dealership was two towns away. His salesman's name was Zack. He was a tall man who had obviously been the jock type while in high school. Sock nodded and hmmed as Zack showed him the more expensive cars and gently steered him towards the cheaper models. He needed something today, because he was itching for a thrill tonight. 

* * *

At this point, the police were desperate for an arrest. An out of state agency had been brought in, no one was sure if it was the FBI or what. The new agency didn't find much more than the local forces, but they did stumble upon one lead. They snatched it up immediately.

They came for him during lunch hour.

Sock, Jonathan, and Lil were at the usual place and the usual table. The topic of discussion was the correct pronunciation of milk.

"Melk," Lil said. "It's dialect."

Jonathan winced. "Maybe it's just because I'm not from around here, but that just sounds wrong."

"I'm going with 'melk' too," Sock decided.

"You've all turned against me!"

"What, like 'muh-ilk' is supposed to sound right?"

A group of men in black uniforms entered the dining area. Sock grew cold at the sight of badges and guns. Conversation died into a complete hush as one of the men approached their table.

"Jonathan Combs, we need you to come with us."

Sock grew colder. Oh no, no, no, no…

"What?"

"You're under arrest on suspicion of perpetrating eight homicides in the area. Come peacefully and we won't have to cause a scene."

He felt Lil grab his arm and squeeze. She was staring at Jonathan, eyes wide. She didn't really believe these guys, did she? Jonathan was nothing like Sock. Jonathan didn't have a killing bone in his body.

Or a loving bone, his mind grumbled.

Ugh, now was not the time to be holding grudges.

Jonathan didn't say anything else, just stood and allowed himself to be led away, arms locked in the grips of two of the men. He only looked back once, at Sock. There was no fear, at least. Blue diamond eyes just reflected confusion. 

* * *

Sock paced and paced and paced across his living room.

"Oh my god," said Lil. "Jonathan's the Gravedigger?"

"They _think_ he's the Gravedigger," Sock corrected. "Why would anybody think that? Why would _you_ think that, Lil."

She bit her lip and looked away.

"Lil?"

"He just… I hear about the case, okay, Sock? Through doors and in the hallway. They mentioned that they had a suspect but I just, I didn't think…" She took a seat in an armchair, hand over her pale face. "It didn't click until lunch that they were talking about Jonathan. All of the evidence made sense. I just can't believe it's Jonathan."

"What evidence?"

"Henry. This all started with Henry. Or maybe your parents," she conceded, but kept going. "Jonathan mentioned that he'd had difficulty finding a morgue that was looking for a tech. He had to go out of state for the job. Henry was killed and almost immediately, Jonathan was there."

"That could be a coincidence," Sock said.

"Yeah but, the murders really picked up after that. You could argue that this all started once Jonathan arrived. And the bodies. They said that they'd been cut open, like in an autopsy." She drew the cuts in the air, a "Y" shape. "And they analyzed the letters. Whoever wrote them seemed to understand crime investigation, and even have some inside knowledge on the Gravedigger investigation. Jonathan would have that, right?"

Sock swallowed hard.

"And as if that wasn't enough, Jonathan really has the personality of a rock. They were saying that serial killers have difficulty connecting with people, sometimes with displaying emotion or empathy. Jonathan had no friends before you and I, and that was difficult for both of us."

It really had been. Sock thought of all of the times he'd been kicked out of the autopsy lab at the morgue.

He shook his head in disbelief. He wasn't really getting on board with this theory, was he? _Sock_ was the Gravedigger, not Jonathan. He somehow had to get the investigators off Jonathan's case. 

* * *

He came across her on the highway. He was in the SUV he had purchased to solve his problem with transporting victims. She was wearing a heavy pack, as though she was hiking somewhere, or running away.

"Are you following 22 to Heidelberry?" she asked.

"Yes," he lied. "Get in."

"Jojo." She stuck her hand out.

"Sock," he returned, shaking her hand.

It was nervousness that kept him from killing her right there. This was the first time he was going to have the car as an accomplice. He settled for stuffing her unconscious in the trunk. The killing could come where he was in a secure location.

She was very pretty. He thought about her face on the way home. Not as pretty as Jonathan's, but something about it was attractive. Her skin glowed. A halo of moonlight shone off her hair. Her grip was strong. She was of the same breed as Jonathan. An angel, probably.

Sock wondered at his talent for falling for impossible people at first sight.


	3. Nine

He locked her in a storage room in the basement. It was unfinished, with exposed brick and cement that was cold and smelled of mildew. He left the boxes that had previously been in the room stacked against the far side of the basement. He locked the room and put the key on the moulding above the door. Even if she screamed, no one would hear her. Being the local gravedigger didn't lend itself to a lot of home visitors, and being outside his small rural middle-of-nowhere town, his house had the advantage of being a good half mile from the neighbors.

* * *

With his newest letter, Sock felt forced into pleading.

"You've got your hands on the wrong man. I might tell you where an angel lies when the accused walks free."

Jonathan was released reluctantly from custody the next day. He said it wasn't because the police were doing what the Gravedigger wanted, but because the letter proved that he wasn't the killer, because he couldn't have sent them the letter while he was detained. Sock would always secretly think that the investigators were actually having fun with his game of letters and bodies.

It felt good to have fun with someone.

* * *

Jonathan was on the front step, looking impassive as usual, aside from the nervous foot tapping. Sock could see him from the backyard garden, where he was halfway through a hole to bury the girl in. He leaned on his shovel and shucked off his gloves, calling to Jonathan.

"What're you up to?" Jonathan asked once he was in arm's reach.

"Just some garden work."

"It looks like a grave."

"I only know how to dig one thing, and that's not going to stop me from growing flowers."

Jonathan smiled at that and Sock couldn't help it when a similar expression crossed his face.

"What're you doing here?" Sock asked casually.

"Oh, you know. I got out of custody a couple days ago. Lil said I should visit you."

"Lil, huh?"

"Yeah. You know she's been trying to set us up since day one, right?"

Oh, did he know. Sock flushed and hoped Jonathan attributed it to the digging. "I thought she was up to something."

They lapsed into a conversation about the sort of flowers in his garden. He was making room for coneflower and bee balm. The first looked like a purple daisy and the second like an evil red double-sided jellyfish abomination. It was cute. They were both deep-rooted native plants. He figured since he'd bury the girl underneath them, she'd decompose a little faster and the flowers would grow a little taller. It was how the flowers and shrubs planted over graves in Primrose Cemetery got to be so full and healthy despite families never tending to them. But then again, that didn't matter so much, because Jonathan had known that Lil was trying to set them up.

His mouth was making noises about flowers still but his brain was still hung up on Jonathan. Even though Jonathan had made it clear he wasn't in the market, Sock still thought he had the greatest blue diamond eyes and still fantasized about Jonathan killing with him. Jonathan didn't need to know about the last one, but Sock wondered if anyone in his limited social circle ever let Jonathan know how pretty he was. Or how smart, composed, and cool he was.

He was just going to say it. Jonathan would want him to get straight to the point.

"I had… Have a huge crush on you," he blurted out.

The regret was immediate. Sock braced for laughter and mockery but Jonathan just shrugged.

"I know," he said.

What? "You knew?"

"I guessed when you kind of alluded to killing yourself over the fact that I'm aromantic. By then it seemed pretty obvious to me."

Sock flushed more. Oh god, he'd been _obvious_.

"Don't worry about it, people can't help but be attracted to my manly charm."

He said it with such a sober tone that Sock laughed in surprise. _Manly_ wasn't exactly what he thought when he imagined Jonathan.

Sock fluttered his eyelashes and gestured to the shovel wedged deep into the dirt. "Would the manly Jonathan help little old me dig a flower bed?"

Jonathan laughed and grappled with the shovel, struggling to lift it out of the earth. The best he could do was tugging it out of the ground without any dirt on it. Sock laughed.

"Hey, it's harder than it looks," Jonathan lamented, handing the shovel back to Sock, who twirled it like it was a plastic straw and struck it deep into the dirt again.

"I'm sure it is," he said.

"Seriously though. Do you want some help digging?"

Sock considered it. It wasn't exactly his dream of Jonathan as an accomplice to murder, but he was helping dig the girl's grave, even if he didn't know it. He nodded. Jonathan needed something small, like a trowel, since the shovel itself was obviously too heavy for him.

"Try the basement," he said without thinking. "There should be a trowel and some gloves down there."

He thought, _Oh god, Jonathan will find the girl and I'll be busted_.

The responding thought was immediate, _Maybe he'd understand. Maybe it would just strengthen our relationship_.

Yeah, right.

The back door burst open and heavy footsteps approached the garden. Jonathan was back. Sock stuck the shovel blade into the dirt and waited. When Jonathan appeared around the taller plants, he looked how Sock had never seen him.

Stony facade broken, Jonathan's face couldn't decide on an emotion. Shock. Anger. Sadness. Fear. It settled on a mouth slashing downward, eyebrows cracked into an inverse V. He almost seemed worried. But from his stomping steps, Sock could recognize the emotion he can come to know so well when he had first attempted to become his friend: anger.

Jonathan got straight to the point.

"Sock, we need to talk. Why was there a girl locked in your basement?"

He'd hoped that the lock would be enough to hide her from Jonathan, because he really had no excuse for that. Obviously the lock had failed him. It was a real bummer that Jonathan knew now.

He sighed. "Jonathan, why did you have to unlock that door?"

"Because," he just about snarled. "I was looking for your tools in the basement, like you said, and thought 'hey, people keep normal things in normal closets, right?' You didn't even hide the key. So tell me, Sock. Why was there a girl locked in your basement?"

"Why do you think?"

"I think you've been hiding something. Something big. And I think that maybe I almost took the fall for your stupidity."

Might as well put it out there. "You think I'm the Gravedigger."

Jonathan looked pointedly at the large rectangular hole he was digging in his garden. Sock pursed his lips. That was rude.

"Honestly, I suspected almost since the beginning." Jonathan crossed his arms, looking vaguely uncomfortable as a distressed expression grew on Sock's face. He obviously hadn't wanted to admit this. "You were a loner, kinda strange. But, what were the chances I would know a serial killer? None. I figured I knew you… Until now."

Sock tightened his grip on the shovel handle. So, Jonathan wanted to know him. "Don't you get on big scary rides? Don't you take your hands off the handlebars and speed down a hill? Don't you sneak around and tell little lies to get what you want? Or just for the fun of it?"

"Killing people is more than a little lie, Sock."

"You just don't get it. I thought you, the morgue tech, out of all people would get it… Don't tell me you don't get a little thrill when you're cutting up a human body and messing around with it."

Jonathan looked mildly offended now. "I really don't. I'm not sure if you noticed, but I have a bit of a flat affect going on. My job is just a job. Not a hobby. It doesn't make me happy. I don't 'mess around' with bodies for fun; I do it to bring closure to investigations and family. It's not about me at all."

Mephistopheles had been right, Jonathan had an exceptionally healthy relationship with his industry. Sock didn't think it was selfish to wish it was just a little more fucked up. He'd been this close to having something more than a friend and maybe even more than a lover: an accomplice.

Sock sometimes wished he was normal. It was a passing thought as he poked at the bloody heart of his latest kill or the short depression after finishing a hole and realizing only dead people and sad people visited his workplace. He went into the dirt like a corpse to make a living. He killed people to feel alive. He broke his own damn heart when he killed his parents, even if it was an accident. And he gave his love to someone that couldn't love him back.

His was a life of dead ends.

The overwhelming feeling of inadequacy and alienation crushed him. He was never going to be clean enough, tough enough, desirable enough. There was a gaping hole where his heart should be and he filled it with kills as he filled the graves in Primrose with his victims.

"Nobody talks to me and sees Sock Sowachowski, they just see _the gravedigger_." He remembered being scared that Jonathan might avoid him because of the grave digging.

It had been stupid to think that Jonathan would accept him.

Why did everyone fear death so much? Enough to shun the living? He felt unlike a human and unlike a ghost, something malicious between the worlds of the living and dead, like a demon.

"Sock, as your friend, disregarding your personal demons―" Hah. "―you're acting stupid. You need to let that girl go and turn yourself in." Jonathan drew himself up. "If you don't, I'll do it for you."

Sock felt a deep throb in his chest, his heart's dying gasp. Pressure built behind his eyes. His tear ducts stung.

"You wouldn't do that," he said quietly. It would doom him to a life in prison. The only death that would loom in his future would be his own.

Stony indifference returned to Jonathan's expression. Sock had lost him.

"You know I would."

Jonathan turned his back to Sock and walked away. Sock sucked in a harsh breath, straining the muscles in his neck in an effort to restrain tears. He thought that the worst thing Jonathan could say was that he wasn't interested, but he'd been proven wrong.

He picked his shovel out of the dirt. With both hands on the handle, he turned towards Jonathan and took a step, unsure of what he was about to do. One step turned into a sprint, and all he saw before he squeezed his eyes shut were Jonathan's wide blue diamond eyes turning towards him in slow motion.

The blade connected with Jonathan's head in an ear splitting crack.

* * *

The girl was gone.

He checked after hauling Jonathan onto the family room couch. The door was unlocked, the key was on the ground, and the girl was gone. Jonathan must have let her go.

That meant his time was short.

He grabbed a travel bag and packed a few things. Some of his parents' clothes, a toothbrush, a comb, some cheap sunglasses, his knife. Once the car was loaded, he hauled Jonathan again, this time into the back seat of the SUV. He couldn't let them take Jonathan this time. Sock had to be there when he came back to his senses, to apologize or accept apologies. He wasn't too picky about which right now.

The county highways were just about deserted at this time of the day. His arms tensed whenever a car flew by, but none of them stopped. Jonathan was deadly silent in the back seat, which left Sock alone with what had proven to be a very dangerous thoughts.

He didn't know where he was going, or why. Jonathan was hurt and needed medical help that Sock couldn't give him, but there was no way he was leaving him to the police. Those bastards already falsely accused and detained him once, there was no telling what they would do once they realized how important he was to the Gravedigger.

Sock had stopped Jonathan from telling the police, but now it was only a matter of time before the girl set them on his trail. That meant his blood was spilled for nothing.

With a sick twinge to his gut, he realized he'd still been thrilled to do it, even though it was to Jonathan. He really was demonic.

What was he thinking? Jonathan was right, he was acting stupid. If he was on the run from the law, he needed to act like it. He needed the old Sock back, the one that killed Henry, who had no idea Jonathan's blue diamond eyes existed, who would've killed the girl instead of knocking her out.

The old Sock wouldn't have just wounded Jonathan.

He glanced at Jonathan's prone form splayed across the back seat. A steady trickle of blood was running down the upholstery and onto the carpet. There was a deep gash in the right side of his head. Head wounds just bleed a lot, Sock recalled. Jonathan wouldn't bleed out. But, Sock swore that when the light was right, he could see white bone nestled in the torn flesh. It had begun to redden with infection because of the dirt driven deep into the wound. The question was whether or not Jonathan would even wake up, much less survive a run from the law. Sock could be doing him a favor by sparing him the pain.

He pursed his lips and pulled over. For a full minute, he didn't move, just stared at a point in the distance. Then he accelerated back onto the road. He pulled over again ten minutes later and turned to stare at Jonathan. He was running out of chances to make a decision.

Did the Gravedigger claim a ninth victim or did Sock cling to something he desperately wanted but could never really have?

He began driving again.

* * *

His cellphone buzzed just as the sun had set and darkness had claimed the highways. The caller ID indicated that it was Lil on the line, but he had no doubt she had police company. He took the call anyway.

"Hello?"

"Sock?"

"Hey Lil."

"Where are you?" Her voice was slow, like she was forcing it to remain calm.

"I can't tell you that, Lil."

There was heavy silence, and then, "Is Jonathan with you?"

Sock debated and then figured they'd assume the right thing anyway. "Yeah, he is."

"Can you put him on the phone?"

"He's a little incapacitated at the moment."

"Is he alright? Is he alive?"

Sock made a face, cheeks reddened as she echoed his earlier thoughts of killing Jonathan. "What kind of… Are they making you ask these questions?"

"Just tell me whether or not _our friend_ is alright and alive, Sock."

Sock sighed. Such dramatics. "Yes, he's alive. Whether or not he's alright is debateable. He's breathing."

A shaky sigh. "That's a relief."

"Hey, since I know they're listening. I just want you police people to know that Jonathan has nothing to do with this, it was all me. Give credit where credit is due. Jonathan had no idea what was going on until today. Got it?"

"They heard you," Lil assured. "We all hear you, Sock. Is there anything else you want to say?"

"Yeah," he smirked. "They can all go suck a dick."

The call ended.

* * *

He took the next right with a determined yank of the wheel. There was a clunk from the backseat as Jonathan's shoe knocked against the door. Sock had been driving all night, to the point that the sun had just perched itself in the sky and shadows had formed underneath his eyes. He had finally come up with a destination for the car, Jonathan, and himself. It all just hinged upon being in the right spot at the right time.

He'd decided that the Gravedigger would claim a ninth victim.

* * *

Primrose Cemetery looked as serene as ever. He noticed that in his absence, a few small weeds had grown in the flower beds bordering the woods. He itched to uproot them and maybe give the place a good mow, but he had more pressing matters to attend to.

The grave marked 'me' was still open, of course. Mephistopheles must have noticed but said nothing. None of the visitors verbally disagreed with it either. It was on his family's plot anyway, which he inherited when his parents died, so he could do what he wanted regardless.

He laid Jonathan out on the ground before the grave and plunked onto the grass to wait. Jonathan stirred a bit before stilling again. Sock hoped he would wake up soon so he could talk to him.

"I'm sorry you got involved with this," Sock started. "You really shouldn't have opened that door."

He could have kept going, killed the girl and moved on, but Jonathan charmed his way into the basement. Jonathan was so pretty. Jonathan was so composed. Jonathan stuck his hands in dead bodies, but didn't quite get Sock. Jonathan was so not into him, but insisted upon being his friend.

Memories of the three sitting on the edge of the grave eating greasy food and complaining about bosses pushed their way to the forefront. He frowned. They seemed to happy to belong to him.

Sirens in the distance.

He perched the knife over Jonathan's abdomen, one hand raised like it was a mallet about to pound a stake in the ground. With a whoosh of breath he steeled himself for what he was about to do. The sirens grew louder and Jonathan scrunched up his face. Despite the situation, Sock couldn't help but smile softly. He looked really cute. The dark red streaks on his face added a nice touch of color too.

A squad of police cars suddenly filled the gravel parking lot, kicking up a huge cloud of dust and debris. They couldn't enter the graveyard without running over headstones, so the officers streamed out of their cars and began to pick their way across the grass. Sock noticed them pick up speed when they realized Sock was mostly alone, with just a motionless body and his old friend the blunt kitchen knife as companions.

Jonathan suddenly woke up, blue diamond eyes a little crossed.

"Sock?" he slurred.

"Yeah, Jonathan?"

Jonathan struggled and took a few breaths. The sun was illuminating Sock's back with bright white light, cating Jonathan's face in deep contrast. His breathing disturbed the knife where Sock held it poised above him. He waited for something profound, affected by the dramatic atmosphere.

"I can't believe… you. Ugh. You hit me!"

He tried to sit up and Sock quickly removed the knife, but Jonathan hissed before he could get very far and laid back down, dragging his hands to his head and tenderly touching the gash there. Sock pursed his lips. When he killed, he never wanted his victims to be in pain long.

One of the police officers shouted his name from where she was stationed behind a nearby headstone. He could only see the very top of her head - a tuft of purple hair.

Sock gave her a glare. Couldn't she see they were having a moment here? Sock needed to say goodbye.

"Gravedigger!" she shouted again.

"What?" he snarled back, thinking that he really didn't like that moniker in her voice.

"I'm going to need you to put the knife down, step away from the man on the ground, and come with us quietly."

Sock pressed the knife against Jonathan's abdomen again, staring straight at the policewoman. Jonathan let out a quiet whine.

"I need to finish talking to Jonathan."

"You need to put the knife down."

A hand grasped the wrist holding the knife. Sock looked down at Jonathan, who seemed pained. Probably from the open wound in his head.

"What do you need to say, Sock?"

Sock licked his lips nervously and glanced at the police. There were at least six loaded guns aimed at his head, but no one had made a move yet. He turned back to Jonathan.

"I was kind of hoping you'd apologize for messing up my life by snooping around in my basement."

Jonathan stared at him. Sock sighed.

"Yeah, I didn't think you would. I wanted to apologize for what I'm about to do."

Jonathan only got out a questioning sound before Sock leaned into a light kiss. Jonathan's first and last. He tasted lip balm and antiseptic and pulled away. Jonathan didn't seem to be anything but confused and Sock mentally shrugged. Of course one kiss wouldn't change their relationship. This wasn't a fairytale. Jonathan's intent to remain single had been clear as day.

At least he'd got one before the end.

Sock picked up his knife. Jonathan's blue diamond eyes grew wide as he raised it. With a look into his eyes, Sock gripped the handle with both hands, like his life depended upon it, and before he could think, pulled it into his own abdomen. There was immediate burning pain and suddenly the sharp retort of a gun. Something slammed into his shoulder and another something tore into his chest. People were shouting. Someone was saying his name.

Without a sound he dropped into the open grave. Vaguely, he felt some cold dirt crumble onto his form like it was trying to blanket him, welcome him home.

The Gravedigger claimed his ninth victim.


End file.
